


The Most Intimate Part

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1970s, Anal Sex, F/M, Intrigue, Loss of Virginity, Personal Ads, Regret, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 12:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15773805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: It begins in 1974 with a personal ad from a woman who hints she's seeking anal sex. And with the socially inept guy who answers the ad. And who gets more than he bargained for.





	The Most Intimate Part

I

1974\. Nixon had resigned on a hot August day. Rockefeller would become  
Vice President that winter (and just a few years later he was destined  
to expire in a highly compromising position with a young female staffer).  
Vietnam was still simmering on the back burner, and policy makers expected  
that the American-supported regime could hold on for the foreseeable  
future (President Thieu would ultimately prove more adept at running a  
liquor store than a country). The Arab oil embargo was just beginning  
to fade into the recent past, yet gasoline remained at a painfully high  
seventy cents a gallon. New York City went bankrupt, and its feisty  
little grey-haired mayor defiantly proclaimed that it was still the  
Big Apple. And that's where I lived at the time, Noo Yawk, Noo Yawk,  
and I was lonely and horny, though not necessarily in that order.

At 26, I was still a virgin, a "technical virgin," that is. What this  
means is that I had never been with a woman in _that_ particular  
way. I liked women all right, could very easily have loved them, but  
they terrified me. I was afraid of not doing the right thing with them,  
of being rejected, laughed at, falling flat on my face, _failing_.

I wasn't really a virgin in every single sense of the word. I had been  
with men a number of times. I didn't really consider myself homosexual  
(or, in the contemporary usage, "gay"). Admittedly I very much enjoyed  
being the passive partner in anal intercourse, and even found it  
moderately satisfying switching roles. There was something profoundly  
sensual about a dick sliding into my ass, penetrating deeply, moving  
in and out. That powerful moment when the guy bending over me would  
gently part my ass cheeks with his hands, then his vaselined dick would  
first touch, then push against my asshole (sounds more true-to-life  
than anal sphincter, doesn't it?), and it would dimple inward, then  
open. Now the magic, the clash of cymbals, as the head of the dick  
popped past the outer, then the inner ring of muscle, then, meeting no  
further resistance, slid smoothly upwards, penetrating deeply . . . up  
into my very guts. It even got so I found the faintly pungent residual  
shit-smell afterwards a turn-on. Yes, I liked taking it in the ass, up  
the ass, but . . . I didn't much care for men otherwise. I liked women,  
I loved them, I loved their touch and their smell and their curves and  
their softness and their femininity.

How I longed to cuddle against a round, soft body after we had both  
had our fill of each other. How I wanted to rest my head on her breasts  
at that moment, then fall asleep. How I craved having her nice round  
ass to caress as I woke up next to her. What a jarring contrast with the  
reality I had settled for -- a man, a hairy, sweaty stranger uncorking  
his slimy, dripping, limp cock from my ass and walking out the door.  
I was sick of this coarse, stripped-down version of lust. I wanted a  
woman, a special woman to love and be loved by.

I had just about given up. I was just plain too shy, too scared, too  
awkward and fumbling, too socially inept to get a girlfriend. Then there  
was the guilt, the thought that having been penetrated by men had somehow  
contaminated me, made me less of a man myself, made me unworthy of loving  
and being loved. Even the thought of approaching a woman made me break  
out into a cold sweat. Then I saw her ad.
    
    
      Gentleman, gentle man, special man sought for
      a deep and intimate relationship, for a very
      special kind of love. If you have ever read
      Norman Mailer's story, "The Time of Her Time,"
      and been touched by it, you might well be the one.
      You are likewise special in all other ways.
      You are a seeker, driven to explore the
      hidden passages."
    

What impelled me to read the personals in the _Town Crier_ on that  
one particular day? I wasn't in the habit of doing so, generally finding  
female-seeking-male personal ads tedious, or at best grimly amusing --  
mostly women looking for a perfect mate, not to mention the fulfillment  
of all their other assorted fantasies as well (the fairy tale theory of  
life). Yet this ad caught my eye.

Yep, I had read Mailer's notorious tale, part of his _Advertisements  
For Myself_ collection of early writings. It was quite a departure  
for him, and possibly the first mention of anal sex in mainstream  
literature. That was in the late '50s, and the lit'ry establishment had  
been quite scandalized. I found the story provocative and a huge turn-on  
when I read it as a teenager. Imagine, an experienced stud and cocksman  
goes through his entire bag of tricks to bring a "frigid" woman to orgasm,  
but nothing works . . . nothing, until he tries, fighting her initial  
reluctance, tries to fuck her in the ass. He gets it in, despite her  
furious resistance and the pain this brings her to an explosive  
climax, the first of her entire life, if we are to believe the narrative.

(Nothing there about the special relaxation techniques needed for painless  
and pleasurable anal penetration. That might have been too much for an  
Eisenhower-era readership to stomach, or just maybe the Great Author  
himself was clueless.)

The story might have been a liberating breakthrough, the dawn of a  
new era of freedom when written, but now in the enlightened mid-70s,  
sodomy was no longer such a big deal. The story was not even all that  
well done -- oh, those endless sentences -- but then I didn't much  
care for anything Mailer wrote after _The Naked and the Dead_ ,  
and I hadn't much cared for that either.

I wasn't at all sure I wanted to respond. It's not as if the woman  
in the ad was offering a simple, "starter" relationship that an  
inexperienced boob like me could handle. This was about kinky sex,  
with all the additional layers of complexity _that_ implies.  
And how many years had it been since I had tried for any kind of  
relationship at all with a woman? What could I offer this one? Yeah,  
I knew a thing or two about ass fucking, learned firsthand, both as  
a top and a bottom. So what if it was with men? Were women all that  
different? For that matter, could that particular portion of a woman's  
anatomy where she shits be all that different than a man's? What the  
hell. I sat down in front of a borrowed typewriter and began to pound  
the keys.
    
    
    Gentle gentlewoman,
    
    Relationships between two seekers of beauty
    and subtle meaning are rare and precious jewels.
    Mailer might well have hit upon something -- that
    just possibly the path to the Fundamental passes
    through the Fundament. His character, though,
    didn't have a clue. He forced his way in, causing
    pain and violation. The woman was quite within her
    rights to dismiss the accidental bringer of her
    pleasure, to kick his butt, actually. Done properly,
    the act brings exaltation and intense pleasure to
    the woman (no pain! no pain!).
    
    I'm offering more, much more than mere fulfillment
    of your cherished fantasy. Mutual appreciation and
    enjoyment of a particular variation or act is not
    in itself, unfortunately, sufficient basis for a
    sustained relationship. Note, therefore, that there
    is substance to me far above and beyond any fetishes
    and/or preferences I might be partial to. Yes, there
    is life after sex.
    

Certainly I did go on a couple of pages about my interests and so-called  
accomplishments. Candle-lit dinners, midnight walks along the beach,  
cuddling in front of a fireplace in a mountain cabin . . . all the  
embellishments women allegedly fall for, purple prose straight out of the  
women's section of the supermarket tabloids. I always could write, even  
if my Junior High English teacher thought otherwise. I figured the woman  
would get maybe 30 or 40 responses, about half of them semi-illiterate  
or just plain moronic, and most of the rest not quite on the mark. I  
gave myself at least a fighting chance of getting a reply.  
The letter came. It was on expensive, linen-weave stationery lightly  
scented with jasmine. She was Amelia Gilbert (she pronounced it  
"Zhil-behr," she wrote, with the accent on the second syllable), a  
Belgian businesswoman representing a European investment syndicate. Age  
indeterminate, but hints that it might be somewhere in the 30s. No photo  
accompanied the note, but my imagination portrayed her as a stately  
and dignified woman, immensely sure of herself, proud in her bearing  
. . . somewhat resembling the cover photograph on Stephen Vizinczey's  
classic, _In Praise of Older Women_.

My turn to tell about myself. She requested a recent picture and a short  
bio ( _curriculum vitae_ , she called it). So I sent her a shot taken  
at one of those photo-booth places that used to be in every mall and  
game arcade. (The pictures came out in a wet strip looking like they were  
taken by a morgue photographer, but, hey, they were cheap.) I've always  
looked younger than my age, and back then I still looked pretty much like  
a teenager. Maybe she'd get a charge out of robbing the cradle. And  
I constructed an intricate and wonderful word-picture of myself. Even  
then I'd led quite an interesting life, and if I didn't have money and  
status to show for it, I was smart, had something of a sense of humor,  
and even a thin veneer of "kultcher." Yeah, I looked much better on  
paper than in person. Put me in front of a woman, a real live woman,  
and I'd become a sweating, stuttering, clumsy idiot.

For some reason she wanted to meet me. What now? How the bloody  
hell did I get myself into this mess? Still, after all that effort,  
I wasn't about to turn chickenshit and run. I'd forever be wondering  
what I'd missed out on. And where could I run to anyway?

So I dressed up for the evening. Blazer with tie was fashionable at the  
time, but just the thought of it made me want to puke (my rebellious  
years were not quite behind me). I dug out a smelly, beat-up field jacket  
that had seen better days on the back of a Bulgarian army corporal  
and a grease-stained pair of Levis with only a few holes. Hey, I had  
showered and brushed my teeth (and even girded my loins in clean Jockey  
shorts). What more could any reasonable woman expect? Gift wrapping maybe?

On sudden impulse, I laid out a coupla bucks for a small bunch of assorted  
wildflowers on the way over. Seemed like the sort of thing I ought to do,  
and not too tough on the budget.

I saw her seated at a table in the outdoor cafe where we had  
agreed to meet. She looked like I might have expected -- brunette,  
somewhere in her late 20s, attractive, but not exceptionally so. My  
palms were sweaty. I took a deep breath, and hesitantly walked up to  
her. "Amelia? No? Sorry." _El wrongo._

A waiter motioned to me. "The lady at the far table believes you might  
have lost your way." In the distance, at a table hardly visible from  
the street, a woman raised an index finger. I walked over. It was a  
long, long walk.  
"Sit." It was a command. Her soft voice could not disguise the steel  
underneath. She might have been in her late 30s or possibly even a  
bit older, but it was like having a cinderblock smashed into my face.  
A stunner. Tall and and pale blonde, almost albino. Wearing a  
broad-brimmed hat and a classically-cut feminine business suit. A lady.  
A statuesque woman, stately, shapely in a manner no longer fashionable  
. . . what used to be called voluptuous. Buxom and large-hipped,  
very, very curvy hips from what I could see, but her smile, oh, that  
enigmatic all-knowing smile (would she ever smile for me alone?). And  
the eyes. Deep, blue-green bottomless eyes. Eyes a man could drown  
in. I was drowning.

She entranced me. A classic beauty, a knockout, a class act. And it  
frightened me. _This woman is way out of my league. What could she  
possibly want with me? And what-the-hell am I doing here, anyhow?_

Lacking anything better to do, I pulled out a rickety wicker-back wooden  
chair across the table from her, almost knocking it over in the process,  
and just stood there, mouth gaping and goggle-eyed. "So, here I am. Yes,  
here I am. Uh . . . Amelia, what a striking name. Amelia, my name is uh  
. . . my name is Casimir. Uh . . . you know something about me from my  
letter. I hope."

"Indeed, here you stand. You cannot do otherwise. Casimir, ah, my young  
aspiring paramour-candidate. So grand an entrance. Let us hope your  
nervousness does not spoil the occasion. I have ordered tea for the both  
of us. Sit."

The hand clenching the back of my chair was shaking, and she touched me  
there. A spark passed from her fingertips to the back of my hand, and  
a flood of warmth washed over me. All anxiety and fear slowly drained  
away. I felt a deep sense of calm, of relief, and yes, destiny. Wearily  
I unfolded into the chair. One by one, the flowers silently tumbled to  
the floor.

II

And here we were in her apartment. Sitting at the kitchen table, facing  
each other. The translucent gauze curtains billowed in the soft breeze  
and the lights were dim. Mid-summer street sounds provided soothing  
background accompaniment. Our voices were still and we sat there with  
our heads hanging down like a couple of shy teenagers on their first date.

This was the critical moment, and all at once I couldn't meet her gaze,  
couldn't do what needed to be done. Then I felt a cool hand on my cheek,  
and she clasped my fingers with hers, pulling me over to whisper in  
my ear:
    
    
      Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, 
      and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now,
      an I were your very, very Rosalind?"
    

"I would say that was a direct quote from Shakespeare's _As You  
Like It_. And, as it happens, I haven't had terribly much luck  
with Rosalinds."

She laughed.

Amelia's hands were large for a woman's, with long, dextrous fingers.  
Her touch was firm and confident. I noticed her well-groomed but  
unpolished nails as she helped me out of my clothes.

"Behold the man. You are a beautiful specimen, Casi. Here, this will  
keep you snug as you wait for me to freshen myself." She handed me a  
well-worn blue velvet bathrobe, then slowly walked off in regal splendor,  
still fully clothed.

There was soft music playing somewhere. A woman sang in a darkly sensuous  
smoky voice. I wandered toward the source of the sound, over by the  
far wall. It was Nan Moravia performing the definitive version of _Love  
is Pain_.
    
    
      You touched my soul
      It brought me bliss
      The tears began
      With your soft kiss
    

Exquisite taste in music. Fine equipment, too. The clear milky tones of  
an old-fashioned tube-type MacIntosh amp and full-size Acoustic Research  
AR-3A speakers did the song justice. Might even put to shame the 300  
watt per channel SWTP _Supertiger_ system I had been planning to  
put together when I got the money. All of it, the choice of music and  
the hardware, even the ambience, earned my seal of approval. For whatever  
it was worth.

I heard water running, then a wedge of light from the half-open bathroom  
door split the darkness. Soft footsteps approached. Amelia placed a finger  
across my lips before I could open my mouth to speak. She took my hand  
and laid something cold and shiny into it. It was a metal squeeze-tube  
with a vaguely camphor-like smell. I strained to make out the label  
in the dim light: _XE-41 Industrial Strength Recreational Lubricant  
(certified safe for internal use)_.

"Use this. It is a special-purpose emollient. Spread it liberally on the  
appropriate portion of your anatomy. Apply all you consider necessary,  
then a bit more. To spare you possible embarrassment, I have already  
prepared myself. Perhaps on subsequent occasions we can dispense with  
artifices." She was wearing nothing.

Amelia kissed me softly on the lips, and her breath smelled of cloves.  
She kissed me harder, then her tongue thrust into my mouth. Her hand  
dropped down behind me, caressed my hind cheeks, squeezed my right one,  
and I felt a fingertip delicately probe my anus. "This is _your_  
secret flower . . . yes, also men have the capacity for pleasure there  
(So, what else is new? I thought). Possibly we will have occasion to  
consider this matter further."

She turned around, and in a single flowing movement bent forward and  
lowered her chest to the bed, surrendering all of herself to me.  
I knew exactly what she expected.

Hands, my own trembling hands found the large round globes of her  
backside, caressed, and caressed them hypnotically. She pushed her ass  
back against me, shoving me backwards a step . . . and I braced myself on  
her wide hips, and I pulled her unto me. I pressed the painfully throbbing  
head of my engorged penis against, then into her secret, secret place,  
her hidden jewel, her dark abyss, her _asshole_. I sank, slowly sank  
into her -- no resistance, just a deliciously liquid slide into a hot,  
hot slippery-walled infinite tunnel. Her pulsing mystery pulled me in,  
gradually swallowed me, engulfed me, and I was home. Home at last.

And I remembered . . . Remembered all the times when I had been on the  
receiving end. How it had felt. How it had felt with a man's dick pumping  
into my own ass. That feeling of being spread wide open, stretched,  
opened up, then filled. The thrusting within me, the slippery-sucking  
friction against my own insides . . .

And then I was there with her again and we were caressing each  
other's bodies, endlessly caressing, hungrily touching and caressing,  
compulsively, hypnotically devouring each other with our hands, just  
our hands. It was raining, and a fine mist came in through the bedroom  
window. And she was singing for me. "Tuo saver al tempo e l'età  
contrasta . . . "

I drifted into dark, formless sleep.

III

In her arms I awoke, enveloped in her warmth and dusky woman-smell,  
my head cradled on her soft breasts. It was as if I were emerging from  
a dream, though perhaps I was still in the dream. She nuzzled my neck,  
nibbled at my earlobe, then squealed like a little girl. "Arise, arise my  
sweet, sweet prince." And arising I was, indeed I was arising. Caressing  
her round hips, letting my hand slip down to the naked undulating curves  
of her lower heat-emitting cheeks, and yes, indeed I was arising, rising  
to the occasion.

"Turn around, turn around, lovely Amelia. I want to admire your wondrous  
backside, your inspiringly curvaceous bottom, your classically sculpted  
buttocks. You are a work of art, and I will play the part of art  
critic." (She opined that she would rather be here in bed with me than  
on display in a museum.)

How can I describe her deliciously ample pear-shaped ass? (She measured  
a full 48" at the hips.) Stretching to the far horizons, like the earth  
viewed from orbit, fecund, the mother of all life. From the dimple at  
the base of her spine, downward, to first hint of cleavage, downward,  
to the valley holding the sacred ruby-jeweled gate, downward, to her  
frontal doorway, her dark-red rose-petaled lozenge, then upward, past  
her clit, and upward, to her luxuriant triangle of light blonde pubic  
hair. And sideward, from the curve of her hip, sideward, across two high  
round hills guarding a hidden entrance (that opened to me!), sideward,  
to the curve of a hip.

She turned toward me then, and pulled my head down. A quick kiss, then  
a slower one, and she impetuously thrust her tongue deeply into my  
mouth. More kissing, much more. Her mouth, then her breasts. Sucking  
her nipples. Then lower, kissing lower. Sucking lower. Tonguing and  
sucking her slippery little knob, then her cunt. Pushing my tongue into  
her cunt. She arched her back and gasped.

Patches of steamy, sweaty musk glued us together, and we were both  
panting. She gently took me into her arms and caressed my face. Then  
she pulled me down with both arms, squeezed me, pressed me against her  
violently, chest to chest. I inhaled the faint scent of talcum powder,  
and she kissed me deeply and slid her palms all the way up and down my  
body. I tongue-caressed her nipples, then sucked on them, and a wave of  
warmth ran through me as she reached down and cupped my balls in her hand,  
squeezed, then bent over and took my shaft into her mouth for a moment.

"Enough, enough, I need you inside me," she breathed. "Give me, fill me,  
fill my sacred passage with your life force, your élan vitale." In  
that proud graceful way of hers, she sinuously twisted around on hands  
and knees and lowered her head and chest to the bed. Her ass presented  
itself, waiting for me to make my entrance, to lose myself in the depths  
of her back passage once more.  
Hypnotic beauty. Her sphincter, her rosebud . . . truly did resemble a  
rosebud. The flower-like lips -- the outer ring of muscle -- swollen and  
engorged with excitement, glowing in shades of dark magenta, an almost  
luminous deep-red luminescence. I couldn't bear to look any longer  
without going slowly mad, and so . . .

I reverently parted her cheeks to let myself in once more. Into the hole,  
the bottomless pit. The entrance to her private chamber, to her hidden  
kingdom. The head of my dick slowly submerged, then disappeared into  
her cave with a faint liquid _plop_. Then I was moving inward on  
a viscous wave of honey smoothness, past the outer ring, a hesitation,  
and on through the innermost portal and she sucked me in, and I slid  
into that bottomless well, the bottomless well of her bottom, the fruit  
of the forbidden tree of knowledge. It was warm in there, then hot,  
burning, the molten pulsating incandescence of the innermost chamber of  
a volcano. And the glowing furnace engulfed me, and I melted and fainted.

And she revived me with kisses. Soft, wet kisses on my mouth, then my  
neck. Now she began sucking, then delicately nibbling the nipples of my  
chest. And I discovered that male nipples are indeed a potent erogenous  
zone. And I was potent again. And I found my way into her dark basin yet  
again. And it endured longer, much longer this time. And the insides of  
her rear passage, slick with my ejaculate, clutched hungrily at me as  
I slid in and out.

I pulled all the way out a few times, just to admire her beautiful  
doorway, the livid crimson-ringed entrance to her ass, enlarged to  
several times its normal girth by the stretching of my entry. It stayed  
open, a perfectly circular dark tunnel leaking white droplets of  
life-bringing fluid. It beckoned me, pulled at me with an irresistible  
force. I braced my hands on her round hips and plunged back in, and I  
slid down, all the way back into her hidden depths.

Only then did it occur to me that I had forgotten the lubrication.  
All the same, the walls of her anal receptacle felt no less slippery  
than before. Even having shot my load into there just moments before,  
that still couldn't account for the silky-smoothness inside. Could it be  
that her mucus membranes were somehow self-lubricating there, inside her  
rectal chamber? There was something very strange, almost frightening,  
going on here.

Still, all this did not seem very important at the time. What truly  
mattered, what moved me then (and years later, in bitter-sweet  
recollection) was her tenderness, her kisses and caresses, her small  
courtesies. Such simple kindnesses as the touch of her gentle hands  
sponging me off with a damp washcloth after the act of love. The  
spontaneous kisses that came when I was least expecting them. The spare  
toothbrush in the bathroom for my use. Even the tears that fell on my  
cheek when I held her close.

IV

Of course, it had to come to an end. The next day, when I called after  
work, no one answered. Ten minutes later, again no answer. Hours later,  
still no answer. _What was going on?_ I had to see her.

The doorman at the apartment building greeted me coldly. No smile and  
jaunty tip of the hat this time. When I told him that Amelia would be  
expecting me, he frowned, then informed me that there was no Amelia in  
residence at the time. I gave him the apartment number. "Mr. Smithson  
has been occupying that particular unit since before I began working  
here." _What?_

I turned to leave. I was in such shock that I must not have noticed that  
someone had slipped a small envelope into my left hip pocket. On creamy  
heavyweight linen stationary there were only a couple of hastily scrawled  
lines.
    
    
       You were not suitable for my purposes.
       Consider yourself fortunate.
    
       A.
    

I was going to move heaven and earth to track her down, but somehow life  
got in the way. The demands of career, then relationships, and finally  
marriage pushed all that childish nonsense onto the back burner. And  
perhaps it was just as well.

Years later, I found out that Amelia was, in fact, the notorious Amalya  
Trepper. She was a person of interest in the mysterious disappearances  
of quite a number of young men. She was also mentioned in connection with  
the theft of certain military technology. Was she a spy? A serial killer?  
Or something even worse? In any case, I was well rid of her.

If there is a lesson in all this, and I have to think there is, it is  
the following:
    
    
      The most intimate part of a woman is not her pussy,
      nor even the rosebud guarding her rear entrance,
      but the place she keeps her secrets.
    

**Author's Note:**

> Could it be that "Amalya Trepper" was the daughter of Soviet spy master Leopold Trepper? If so, the plot would thicken.
> 
> ***
> 
> Nan Moravia, of course, was a torch singer with a promising career who somehow faded into obscurity.
> 
> +++
> 
> The inspiration for this story came from a personal ad that ran in the Village Voice in January, 1975.  
> The author did not send in a response, but still wonders what would have come of it if he had.


End file.
